The Last Dance
by wishnik
Summary: Post Iced, Pre Grave Danger. Sara Sidle has made some mistakes before. But signing up for a DANCE TOURNAMENT? Even worse, she's falling for her partner, Greg Sanders. Sandle, rated T cause I'm careful.
1. Competitive Nature

'INTER-SHIFT DANCE COMPETITION' was the first thing that greeted Sara Sidle as she entered the locker room. The bold, black words were typed onto lime green paper, making it almost impossible to miss. Also, it was being rather erratically fluttered in her face. That was a bit difficult to ignore as well. The holder of the sheaf wore a grin similar to the Cheshire cat's.

"Did you see this?" Greg Sanders asked brightly.

"As you've been waving it right in front of my face, yes, I have," she said dryly. "What's the big deal?"

"It's yet another chance to prove that nightshift rules!" Greg intoned excitedly. Sara rolled her eyes.

"Can't that wait until the inter-shift softball tournament?"

"Not according to Ecklie. Personally, I think he's just sore that nightshift had more overtime and a better solve rate than days as of last evaluation," Greg cracked.

"Somehow, I don't see Ecklie as the type to cut a mean rug," Sara said flatly.

"See for yourself." Greg produced another fluorescent green paper with a flourish. As Sara gave it a quick once over, her expression quickly turned from unconvinced to stunned.

"I didn't know Ecklie could dance." She grimaced. "I didn't WANT to know Ecklie could dance. Those mental images are going to scar me for the rest of my life." Giving the sign up sheet a closer look, Sara's eyes widened, and her gaze shifted to her coworker's face. "YOU signed up for it?"

"Grissom volunteered me."

"This ought to be interesting. I don't really think that banging your head around the DNA lab to what you call music is considered actual dancing, Greg," Sara informed him matter-of-factly, turning to her locker.

"Har har," Greg said sarcastically. "I'll have you know my mother made me take dance classes as a teenager. While other boys were at karate, I was learning how to tango, waltz and mambo with the best of them." Sara stared. "Well, would you rather it was Grissom?" he asked defensively. "Just try to imagine it. He'd probably sign up one of his spiders as his dance partner." Sara snorted. "Speaking of partners..." Greg cast a pointed glance at the other CSI. Sara gaped.

"What? ME! You can't be serious!" Greg's expression told her he was, indeed, serious. "You will not get me within ten feet of that dance floor," she declared vehemently.

"Okay," Greg said nonchalantly. Sara glared suspiciously.

"Okay?" Greg nodded.

"Uh huh. I'll just ask Sophia. I'm sure she'd be glad to help me out."

"Sophia!" Sara yelped.

"Yep. It's probably better this way, anyways. I mean, if you can't dance, you can't dance. You're just saving yourself the embarrassment. Perfectly understandable." Sara narrowed her eyes. "In fact, I think I see her now. Hey, Sophia!" Greg waved to catch the blonde CSI' s attention, and Sara snatched the paper out of his hands.

"Wait just one minute. I didn't suffer through five years of ballet for nothing. I KNOW I can dance better than Sophia can. Now where do I sign?" Sophia, who was ignorant to the whole exchange, ambled over at Greg's beckon.

"You called?" she asked him.

"Just wanted to tell you good job on the drowning case," he lied easily. Slightly confused, Sophia thanked him and went on her way. Sara, who remained oblivious to the triumphant grin on Greg's face, and to the fact that she had played right into his hands, furiously scrawled her name next to his.

"There," she said defiantly, handing the sheaf back. "I am officially your partner."

"And I am officially in your debt," promised Greg as he backed away. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go hand this in to Grissom. Thanks Sara, I owe you one."

"You're damn right you do," she muttered at his retreating form. As she made her way towards the breakroom for coffee, the enormity of what she had just done struck her. _'Oh my God,' _she thought with panic, _'what am I going to do?'_

* * *

Oookay, so how's that for a beginning chapter? Kind of short, because it was more like a segue into the next, longer parts. Hee hee, I had the mental image of Grissom dancing with a tarantula and Ecklie doing the robot while writing most of this. But can you imagine little Greggo pulling a Patrick Swayze? Ahem, um, I can. (And it's a wonderful image, too...)

Sooo, if I get reviews, you get to choose the dance that Sara and Greg will perform! makes puppy eyes Pleeease? Constructive criticism is welcome, flames will be used to burn Ecklie to the ground.


	2. Scoreboard

Reviewers, you rock my world. Nothing gives me more pleasure than to see people begging for updates. Gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside.

To meg: Ha, funny you should mention that. I was actually inspired to do this fic while watching Dirty Dancing (my mind is forever developing plot lines...it's totally ridiculous...). I'm almost positive I'm going to have them do the mambo (although salsa IS an interesting idea...I have to do more research) I'm kind of iffy about the lift at the end of the dance. Swayze was a professional in the movie, while Greg and Sara are NOT. We'll see, though. Apologies in advance for any spelling mistakes. My spell check isn't working, and I typed this in a hurry.

Disclaimer: I forgot to do this last chapter. Repeat after me: Jerry Bruckheimer owns the woooorld...and my soul, with his movies and TV shows. If I owned CSI, Greg would dance only with ME.

* * *

That night, Sara found it completely impossible to concentrate on the job, preoccupied as she was with the thought of the imminent contest...that she had signed up for (that one still baffled her). Fortunately, all Grissom had for her was a B&E on the Strip, the simplest of cases, which she would be working on with Greg. She suppressed a groan. She wasn't ready to deal with him just yet.

What HAD she been thinking? It had been over twenty years since she last danced, and she'd hated the classes every step of the way. So what possessed her to sign up for a CONTEST involving it? She winced. Well, that answer was easy. Jealousy; mad, raging, green eyed envy had coursed through her veins at the thought of Greg choosing Sophia to be his dance partner. As if the blonde CSI hadn't stolen enough from Sara already, now she wanted to whisk away her best friend. (Something in the deeply buried logical part of Sara's mind said that blaming Sophia wasn't quite fair, as she probably hadn't had a clue about Greg nearly asking her, but right now reason wasn't the first thing on the brunette's mind).

Thankfully, Greg didn't make mention of the contest throughout the entire time they were at the bar that had been robbed. When they brought the evidence back to the lab, he kept the conversation at convivial, lighthearted topics such as why a thief would be so idiotic as to ask for a drink before the burglary, hold the glass without gloves and then leave it there after he left. Obviously it was a first time villain.

Of course, it couldn't last.

Greg became conspicuously silent following his impersonation of an idiotic criminal that left Sara in stitches. If she hadn't been trying so hard to regain breath after cracking up twice, she would've noticed that he seemed almost nervous now.

"Whew," she gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. "I haven't laughed that hard in ages. I definitely think you should do that for Nick and Warrick, it'll kill them." Greg didn't say anything; merely looked at her oddly. "What?" she asked, suddenly self conscious. He shifted.

"Weeelll..." he said, appearing to choose his next words very carefully. "You know...that contest is in three weeks, so, if we want to be prepared for it, I think we should work out some kind of practice schedule." As he said it, Sara's heart sank. She had been so close to forgetting about anything to do with dance, too.

"Yes, I suppose so," she said, sighing resignedly.

"You know," he began hesitantly. "If you really-I mean REALLY don't want to do this, I can always go to Grissom and tell him I'm switching partners. You don't HAVE to participate."

_'Really? Okay!' _screamed Sara's excited subconscious at the prospect of a cop out. However, one glance at the almost puppy-like expression on Greg's face, and Sara's insides melted like goo. Resistance. Was. Futile.

"No, really, I want to," Sara insisted. _'LIAR!' _She forced a grin. "Besides, it'll be fun to see the look of defeat on Ecklie's face when we kick his ass. Again." Greg grinned, all timidity gone.

"And Catherine and Warrick," he added. Sara was dumbfounded.

"Catherine...and...Warrick." she repeated slowly. Greg appeared confused.

"Yeah...someone didn't look closely enough at the sign up sheet, I take it?" he teased lightly.

"I was trying to cope with the image of Ecklie on a dance floor," she retorted.

"Touché," he conceded.

"So. Catherine and Warrick are partnered up," Sara mused. "Well, maybe this will give them the push that they need." Greg's brow furrowed.

"Push?" Sara stared at him like he'd grown a second head.

"You mean you missed it?" she demanded. "Come on, they're completely obvious. The little looks, and touches...they're both crazy about each other!"

"Well...I haven't really been paying attention to what's around me these past months," he admitted a little sheepishly. "Most of my time and effort has been concentrated into getting promoted to CSI."

"It's there," Sara said certainly, punctuating the statement with an affirmating nod of her head. "Call it a woman's intuition. I can sense when someone's in love." Greg gazed at her through unreadable brown eyes.

"Can you now?" he asked strangely. Sara didn't even blink.

"Of course. And those two are definitely in love. Maybe this dance thing is just what the doctor prescribed."

"Maybe," Greg echoed. "But, anyways, before we got sidetracked by Catherine and Warrick..."

"Right," Sara interjected. "Um, what did you have in mind?" _'Please let it be painless' _she prayed fervently.

"I have a friend who owns a dance studio, and she's going home to Italy for a few weeks. I'm sure I can get her to let us use her space to practice while she's away," he said confidently. "We've known each other forever. Since before I came to Vegas, in fact." To Sara's unending surprise, she felt a flash of jealousy at his words. _'Since before Las Vegas?'_ she thought unhappily. _'I don't know anything about him before Vegas. In fact, I barely know anything about him, period.' _This thought disturbed her more than she thought it rightly should. But she was his friend, wasn't she? He was certainly her best friend. Shouldn't she know things about him? But she'd never even been to his apartment. _'But SOPHIA has.' _The snarky voice of jealousy that had been banished to the back of her mind was back full force. _'Because SOPHIA is so wooonderfull, and beauutiful, and she's just the best CSI EVER_-'

"Uh, Sara, are you even listening to me?" Greg asked uncertainly, and Sara realized that while she had zoned out, he'd been speaking.

"Sorry?" She became instantly attentive, and he looked faintly annoyed.

"I was just asking what you were doing after shift?" he reiterated. "Because if you're not doing anything, you could stop by my place and we can discuss what we're going to do while not on company time."

"What does it matter? We could solve this case in our sleep," Sara said, wondering why all of the sudden he was so concerned about wasting time. "Besides, it's not like it's going anywhere." Greg flinched slightly, and inclined his head towards her.

"Because Grissom is standing right behind you," he said. Spinning, Sara pasted on a fake smile for the unamused supervisor.

"Heeey Grissom," she said in what she hoped was a casual tone of voice. "Greg and I were just about to..." She looked at the former lab tech for help.

"To...compare...the bartender's story...to what other possible witnesses were saying," he improvised. While not the best excuse, it was better than sitting there looking guilty. Sara nodded in agreement to what he was saying. Grissom looked thoroughly unconvinced, but said nothing.

"Right," he said skeptically. "Well, just make sure it stays that way." With that, he exited the room. Sara stared at where he had been.

"What's his problem?" she muttered to herself. Greg shrugged with a 'why are you asking me?' expression on his face. Shaking her head, she returned her gaze to the crime scene photos sitting in front of them.

"Soo...my place?" Greg said. Sara nodded. Her vindictive side mentally punched the air. _'Sophia: 1; Sara: 2!'_

* * *

Huh. That chapter didn't turn out quite like I wanted it to. I'm afraid it was too boring. Hoooowever...next chapter things heat up. Because SARA is going to GREGGO'S apartment. Hee hee hee...

Ooh, how's this for strange coincidences: I was in the car thinking about this story, and the song from Dirty Dancing (which is the movie that inspired this fic, as stated before the chapter) came on to the radio! Y'know, the 'I've Had the Time of My Life'. Just thought it was kinda cool...

Okay, you all know what a review whore I am. IF YOU WANNA SEE SARA AND GREG MAMBO/TANGO/SALSA/WHATEVER I'M GONNA HAVE THEM DO, please, click the little purplish blue review button. Until next chapter, then!


	3. Mambo Magic

It is decided. I was seriously considering the salsa for a while, but then I saw a video clip of it, and the speed at which they were moving just made my head whirl. It was cool, but not quite what I wanted. So we will be following Sara and Greg in their quest to learn the mambo, which is slower than salsa, and I have a bias towards it because of Dirty Dancing. Which, heh heh, I watched yesterday on Family Channel. I think it will work out for the best. (Still can't decide on that damn lift, though...stupid need for realism...)

Reviewers, once again you have proven that my efforts are not in vain. I think that this is my most successful story yet. Huh. I knew I'd hit it at one point. Much love to you guys.

Disclaimer: Didn't I already do this? It depresses me. Alright...IdonotownCSIoranyofitscharacters! The honor goes to Bruckheimer, the lucky bastard.

* * *

Sara stared apprehensively at the door in front of her, then looked back at the address she held clutched in her hand. She had been doing this for the past fifteen minutes. It was stupid, perhaps, as the numbers matched perfectly and it was written in Greg's own scrawling hand, but what if this was the wrong apartment? Maybe he'd miswritten it, and when she opened the door, she'd meet some fat, fifty year old man who had a grease stained shirt and left beer cans everywhere. In which case, she would run screaming no matter how much of a helpless girl it made her seem.

Oh, this was ridiculous. All she was doing was going to his apartment. Gritting her teeth, she gripped the knob to the door that he said he'd leave open for her.

The door opened with a click, and she sighed with relief as she stepped inside. The first thing she heard was fast tempoed drums and guitar, which wasn't too unusual for Greg, but what she SAW was what struck her speechless.

He was dancing, but not in the thrasher way that he had around the lab. This was real, bonufied feel-the-rhythm-in-your-bones dance, the you-are-one-with-the-music crap that they spouted in almost every 80's dance revolution chick flick. It was incredible, and something she'd never have associated with the new CSI. Plus, if she leaned her head just so she could see a thin strip of leanly muscled abdomen that the shirt didn't quite cover as he moved around-_'WHOA! HOLD THAT THOUGHT RIGHT THERE, SIDLE!' _her subconscious screamed. _'Since WHEN am I even REMOTELY attracted to Greg Sanders?' _It was the dancing. It had to be. There was no other reason for it. Clearing her throat loudly to grab his attention, and stop the one man show that he was unwittingly putting on, she sighed with relief when he halted and then jumped when he realized it was her. Blushing a vibrant hue of red that might just match her own flaming cheeks, he stared at her in the doorway for a moment.

"Oh, hi!" he squeaked in unnaturally high octaves. He coughed, and resumed speaking with more normal tones. "I was just..." He gestured at the CD player by way of explanation.

"Right," Sara said, thankfully without tremor. "So...this is not what I imagined your apartment to look like." Glancing around, she saw that either Sophia had either caught Greg's place on a bad day, or she was exaggerating, because the space was nothing if not neat. Hardwood floors, bookshelf along one wall full of textbooks and novels and forensic journals, matching furniture, an entertainment center with a stereo system, DVD player and television...actually, Sara had to admit she liked it quite a lot. Plus, there was the amazing fish tank that took up almost an entire wall and emitted a soft blue glow. Swimming about through the fake seaweed were exotically colored fish of all shapes and sizes.

"I get that a lot," Greg said a bit sheepishly, turning down the music.

"What were you listening to?" Sara asked curiously. "It didn't sound like your usual…and I use the term loosely…music." Greg's face held something akin to horror.

"Come on, Sara! It's JOURNEY! They're CLASSIC! How is it POSSIBLE to not know them?" The older CSI merely shrugged. Greg groaned. "Don't tell me…you're one of those people who listens to the Dixie Chicks, aren't you!"

Sara shifted uncomfortably. _'It's just the one CD…and it was only because I liked their cover of Landslide! I swear!' _However, she refrained from mentioning this, opting to take the defensive.

"Did you invite me here to discuss our routine, or knock my taste in music?" she snapped peevishly. He scratched the back of his head.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

Sara didn't answer; instead she crossed to his loaded bookshelf.

"So what do former lab rats read, anyways?" she mused out loud, scanning the titles on the shelves. Nearing the bottom, she stopped short, blinked, and looked them over again. "Greg…" she began uncertainly "what are these?" Glancing over her shoulder, he froze.

"Ummm…they're not mine?" he ventured.

"Bull," she stated flatly. "Now Playboys I would've expected, but this-this is just sick." Before her were several volumes, among them The History of Contemporary Dance, A Comprehensive Guide to Salsa and The Mambo: Step By Step.

"Erm, well, you know when I told you my mom made me take dance classes?"

"Greg, generally when you take a class and hate it, you don't have whole books on the subject."

"I never said I hated it," he said quickly.

"You didn't?"

"No-in fact, I liked it. A lot." Greg seemed interested in his feet all of the sudden. "So much so that I took lessons all throughout college."

"What!" He nodded grimly.

"It gets worse. You know that month when I refused every breakfast invitation extended to me? It was because I was helping Fiorenza-"

"Who!"

"My friend who owns the dance studio," he clarified. "It was because I was helping her teach a course on Advanced Mambo. I've done competitions before-" Sara went pale "-and won them. I'm a disturbed man. But I swear this one was all Grissom, evil supervisor that he is. I was all set to sit back and watch someone like Archie or Hodges make a fool of themself on the floor, and then Griss interfered to save his own skin."

"This...is a side of you I never expected to encounter," Sara said faintly. "But, you know, you're strange enough so that this really shouldn't surprise me."

"I'm not sure whether to be offended or grateful," Greg said mildly. He flopped on the couch, and Sara perched in the chair next to it. "So how about we put this little episode behind us and get down to business. Now I'm still stuck on the routine. I spoke to Fiorenza before you got here, and she said using her studio was fine. I'd really like to do the mambo, because I totally rock that dance, if I do say so myself. Specifically…you have seen Dirty Dancing, right?"

"Once or twice." _'More like twenty-seven times, to date. I can't help that it appeals to my feminine side.'_

"It's similar to that sequence, except for a few differing steps. However…" he looked doubtful. "It's a little difficult for beginners to master."

'_Excuse me? Is that a challenge? Yeah, so what if I haven't taken classes in decades, and I never competed. I could recall that training at any time and be accidentally graceful, buddy!'_

"Are you underestimating my abilities?" Sara glared. Greg raised his hands in defense.

"No-no-it's just…I don't know how far you're willing to go with this. It can get a little strenuous at times," he said cautiously.

"I can do strenuous. You teach me the routine, I will work twenty-four/seven to master it.," Sara stated determinedly. SHE certainly wasn't going to be seen as the weak spot in this team. Greg, clearly defeated but not very surprised about it, sighed.

"I had a feeling you'd say that. One other thing…there's a lift near the end. I think we may have to leave it out."

"Why?" Sara asked with annoyance. Greg went a little pink.

"Um-well-not to sound-what I mean is-" he stammered nervously. Sara tapped her toe against the ground in impatience.

"Spit it out, Greg."

"Uh, when I do the routine with Fiorenza-she's shorter than you are, and-" he cringed "-lighter."

"Are you saying I'm too fat for you to lift!" Sara spluttered indignantly

"Not at all!" Greg protested. "You're not fat, Sara-I just don't know if I'm physically strong enough to support your weight, because you're taller and therefore heavier. It could be dangerous, trying it without being sure I can hold you. And I'm not going to risk you getting hurt because of some stupid competition that doesn't even mean anything," he said fiercely. Sara was taken aback.

'_I didn't know Greg had a protective streak. It's actually…really sweet. Kind of adorable.' _She flushed at that thought, and banished it from her mind.

"Okay," she said in a small voice very unlike her.

"You know what?" Greg offered after a moment of slightly tense silence. "We'll see. I guess that's a bridge we'll have to cross when we get there. In the meantime," he looked over at the clock "let's call it a night-er, day. You should probably go home and get sleep before shift, and, well, so should I." He grinned, and for a brief second Sara's heart stopped beating. "Because I can be a total bitch without my required two hours."

"Isn't it eight hours?" Sara amusedly as she headed for the door. He raised an eyebrow.

"When you're a CSI, all the rules change."

_'Yes,'_ Sara thought, _'they certainly do.'_

* * *

Ooh, did you catch the funny little double meaning there? You know, Greg's now a CSI, and she's seeing him in a different light...well, I thought it was kind of clever.

And when I say things will heat up, I mean plotwise. Sorry all you disappointed fans who were waiting for hawt Greg/Sara fully clothed sex on the dance floor. Maybe you'll get a little bit of that next chapter. If you're good and review. Yes, that is a bribe.


	4. Danza Italiano

I have hereby reached the thirty review mark! I'd like to thank the Academy…uh, I mean, the reviewers…heh.

In this chapter, we will be meeting an OC who is NOT a Mary-Sue, and will NOT be competition for Sara. (We will find out why, exactly, in later chapters…oooh, a myyysteryyy…) In fact, she won't be much of an extreme feature at all. I tend to stray away from main character Ocs.

Ookay, for further reference, this story is third-person limited, sort of like the Harry Potter books (btw, the Half-Blood Prince RAWKED!) so the only thoughts we'll be getting are Sara's. I may zoom into other people's POV's for short amounts of time, but nothing drastic. What can I say? Sara just loves the limelight (and Greg, but that's a different-wait, no, it is the same story-different chapter, though-shoot, now I've confused myself). Oh, and note that I have no idea what kind of car Sara drives. I just made it up. Likewise, I haven't the foggiest notion of what Greg gets around in, either. I just pick what I like that's on the market today.

As much as I know you love to listen to me rant, however, I've a story to tell.

Disclaimer: DIDN'T I ALREADY DO THIS? Okay, for the last time. Carry this with you throughout the entire story. in the Budweiser frog style Bruck-heim-er.

* * *

Sara stumbled down the stairs of her apartment building, ponytail holder clenched between her teeth as she struggled to gather her hair up and walk at the same time. Her alarm had malfunctioned, meaning that she had woken up twenty minutes late. Also meaning that she would need a new alarm clock, as when she found out it had glitched on her, she'd thrown it out the window.

Nearly knocking over a man who was slowly making his way up the walkway to the building, rubbing his head as though some foreign, flying object had…excuse the pun…clocked him, Sara fairly flew to her car and fumbled to unlock the door. She was going to be late for work.

Or…not, as she usually got there two hours before shift began anyways, but she'd be breaking a personal record, and she'd still have to endure endless teasing at the lab. She revved up her little Honda Civic, only for it to produce a very…unrev-like sound. It was closer to her eighty year old Uncle Albert, who had emphysema and a dry, hacking cough. Staring at the ignition in horrified disbelief, Sara tried again, and it sputtered. Actually _SPUTTERED_. Then it died.

Letting her head fall forward in a gesture that was undoubtedly meant to be dramatic but leaned more toward stupid, Sara's forehead banged against the steering wheel.

"OW!" was the howl that resonated throughout the car. "Stupid-worthless-crappy-piece of shit!" she ranted, whacking the offending wheel for good measure. Now she was late with a headache and the imprint of a steering wheel on her forehead.

Now what was she going to do? Her car didn't work, and there wasn't any time to see what was wrong. She might be ACTUALLY tardy if she didn't come up with a solution fast.

'_Think, Sara, think! You're a CSI! Thinking is basically your JOB! Well, along with fingerprinting, crime scene processing, DNA collecting-okay, getting off topic. How can I-oh DUH! Call someone and have them give you a ride! Now who to call? Grissom? Nah, he'd try to make small talk, and I'm not in the mood. Sophia?'_ Sara paused in her mental monologue to scoff. _'Not a snowball's chance in hell, even if I dared be caught dead with her phone number. GREG! THAT'S IT, I'LL CALL GREG! He won't mind-I hope-plus, he lives pretty close by anyways!' _It was true. He lived, in fact, only a few streets away from Sara. _'Now why didn't I think of that before? I'll just blame it on the head injury.'_

Pulling out her cell phone, Sara scrolled through the numbers to find Greg's. He picked up after two rings.

"Sanders," he answered. She grinned. He really sounded like a CSI, anymore.

"Hi Greg. It's Sara."

"Oh. Hey Sara, what's up?"

"I have a bit of a problem. My car won't start, and I need a ride to work. Could you…?" Sara held her breath, hoping he'd come through for her. She wasn't disappointed.

"Say no more. My Miata is at your service. Finally, for once I get to drive!" he said enthusiastically. Sara let that comment slide with an unseen roll of the eyes.

"Thanks, Greg," she said gratefully. "Let me give you the address."

Ten minutes later, a little silver Miata rolled up next to Sara. Greg rolled down the window.

"Behold," he called from the driver's side, "your knight in shining armor. Hop into my noble steed," he added a bit dryly. Sara suppressed a smile at his antics, mood lifting already. Stowing her field kit on the floor of the passenger side, Sara slid in next to him.

"I wouldn't so much call it noble…" Sara smirked as he resumed driving. Greg feigned deep hurt.

"Hush, you'll hurt its feelings," he said in an exaggerated whisper, patting the dashboard protectively.

The rest of the ride passed with comfortable chit-chat and banter (mostly the latter), and as they entered the crime lab's parking lot, Sara realized that her previous bad mood had almost completely disappeared.

Entering the building, they were almost immediately overtaken by Grissom, who was parting company with Sophia, and appeared to be in good spirits.

"Sara, Greg," he nodded at them by way of greeting. "You're a little late." Mostly his surprise was directed at Sara, who had almost never in all of her years as CSI for the LVPD been tardy.

"Car troubles," she replied. "Greg gave me a ride."

"Oh." Grissom accepted this excuse implicitly."It's been slow so far, so I want you two to stick with the B&E you were on last night. Sophia and I will be off on a homicide in the suburbs."

Sara waited for the customary flash of jealousy that occurred whenever she heard Grissom and Sophia were going to be alone together, but surprisingly, it never came. All she felt was a little disappointment at the fact that she would be stuck on the boring case while Grissom got to investigate a DB. As Grissom disappeared down the hall, Greg turned to her.

"I think he loves being supervisor if only because he can take the interesting cases while leaving us with the drudge work," he sighed good-naturedly.

"I don't doubt it," Sara replied.

Three hours later, the older CSI wanted to rip her hair out, if only for something to DO. They'd solved the burglary case forty-five minutes into shift, and when they brought the suspect in for questioning, he'd cracked in under fifteen. Half-an-hour had been whiled away by paperwork, and now all there was for her to do was stare at the break room ceiling. Grissom was still out at his scene, and across from her, Greg was amusing himself by creating various origami shapes with that day's newspaper.

"Make sure to stay away from the crossword, or Grissom will have your head," Sara warned. Greg stared abashed at the puzzle he had been about to fold into a crane, and set it carefully aside. Grabbing another, he quickly turned it into a flower and held it across the table to Sara.

"For you, as a token of my thanks." Sara raised an eyebrow and plucked it from his grasp. Unfortunately, that had been the last of the paper, and now Greg was left with nothing to do. He stretched and rocked backwards in his chair.

"Man, I'm actually wishing I was in the DNA lab with backlog right now. That is a sick, demented thing." Almost on cue, Jacqui poked her head into the room. She brightened when her eyes landed on Greg.

"Ah, there you are. Hey, Mia had an emergency and had to cut out early, so she was wondering if you could cover for her the rest of shift." Her gaze bounced from him to the abundance of origami littering the break room. "Since it looks like you're so busy." Greg stood, raising his arms in mock adulation.

"There is a God," he said as he exited. "See you later, Sara."

"Yeah, later," she echoed, now bored AND lonely. _'Maybe I'll just look over some cold case files. That'll show them, when I solve some fifty year old murder case that even Grissom wouldn't be able to figure out,'_ she thought vengefully. _'Yeah. And then maybe Greg Sanders will start listening to country music of his own volition,' _the other side of her subconscious said sarcastically.

The sad thing is, Sara DID end up sifting through cold case files, albeit a bit disinterestedly, as her heart wasn't in it. She was finding her heart wasn't in a lot of things lately, work being one of them. Maybe she needed a vacation.

She snorted out loud. Oh, she could definitely see Grissom's facial expression if she asked for time off. He would looked shocked, then concerned. THEN he'd try and take interest, asking what her problems were and if he could help. That's the only time he took interest, when something was wrong.

Sara was driven from her forlorn and slightly bitter thoughts by something she hadn't heard in a while-music. Loud, floor-rattling, head banging crashing drums and screeching guitars. Even though the noise was enough to give someone and instantateous headache, Sara couldn't help the amused smile that crossed her lips. She had almost missed the ear-shattering but familiar death metal that accompanied Greg being in the DNA lab. Almost. High regard for her hearing kept her a few paces away from real longing.

Without knocking (who would've heard it, anyways?) Sara stepped inside the lab. Greg took no notice of her as he checked some results from CODIS, mouth moving in perfect synch with a song Sara couldn't even begin to discern the words to. Surmising that words would be pretty much worthless at this volume, she tapped him on the shoulder.

Startled, he whipped his head around to face the intruder, but relaxed when he saw it was only Sara.

"Oh," he said, relieved. "It's only you." His words were lost in the din, however. Shaking her head, Sara reached over and turned the music down, wincing at the ringing it left in her ears.

"What did you say?" she asked.

"I said 'Oh, it's only you'," Greg repeated.

"If I were a lesser person, I'd be offended," Sara harrumphed. "But you can make up for that careless remark by driving me home." He appeared mildly surprised.

"Shift is already over?"

"Well yeah," replied Sara edgily. "Some of us weren't saved by an early-leaving DNA tech. I was stuck looking through cold case files all night."

"Yeah, but think: Wouldn't it have been cool if you'd have solved some fifty year old case that even Grissom wouldn't have been able to crack?" Greg asked rhetorically, trying to put things into perspective. Sara declined to mention that she'd had that very same thought.

When they reached Greg's car, he paused, as if seemingly just remembering something. Then he turned to Sara apologetically.

"I'm sorry, Sara, but I just remembered: You know my friend Fiorenza, the dancer?"

"Yes," Sara said suspiciously.

"Well, she's leaving town tonight, and I said I'd stop by her studio and pick up the keys so we can use it whenever we want for practice. I would do it after I dropped you off, but it's right on the way. Do you mind if we stop in?"

Eurgh. Somehow Sara had managed to get through a whole shift without thinking of her impending doom, and here it was, thrown into sharp prose. So she decided to be a masochist and add fat to the fire.

"I don't mind. I mean, since we'd already be there, you could start showing me some of the steps to our routine, even," she offered, resisting the urge to grit her teeth. Greg appeared fairly stunned.

"Um, sure, if you want. But are you sure you don't want to go home and catch some sleep or something?" he said uncertainly.

"Nah," Sara said nonchalantly. "I grabbed a nap while I was flipping through the unsolved cases." It was true, she had ended up falling asleep at some point during shift. She thanked the heavens no one had seen her, because she'd awoken with paper stuck to her cheek.

"Oh, well, okay."

The studio was a surprisingly short distance from the crime lab. It was in a well-kept, medium sized building of adobe that shared space with a coffee-house and a pizza place. The space itself was in what Sara supposed was the basement of the building, as they traveled down a flight of stairs to reach it. It was not at all basement-like, however, with clean blue carpeting in the halls and waiting rooms and white walls that were decorated with posters declaring encouraging phrases and portraying famous dancers. There were one or two Degas' as well.

"What does she teach?" Sara whispered the inquiry to Greg.

"Everything," he replied softly back. "Jazz, ballet, tap, salsa, mambo-you name it, she knows it."

"All by herself?"

"No, she has other teachers, and she's got another, smaller studio out in the suburbs. But she's the best."

The person that they spoke of chose that moment to appear behind a counter that ran along the length of the wall, and Sara had a horrible, sinking feeling that had absolutely NOTHING to do with the fact that the woman in question was petite and exquisite looking with shiny black hair and olive skin and perfect, pearly white teeth that made Sara tongue the gap between her own two front teeth self-consciously. And it was a particularly hard feature to ignore, because this woman was smiling brilliantly at the moment. At Greg. And he was grinning back.

'_Well fine,' _Sara thought peevishly. _'They can just get married and live in wonderful straight-toothed bliss and have dozens of children with that exact same asset and they'll never have to worry about dental insurance.'_ She watched, stewing, as the woman hopped over the counter excitedly and kissed Greg on both cheeks.

"Greg!" she said with a heavily Italian accent. "I was wondering when you'd come! How long has it been?" she asked him disapprovingly, waggling her finger in his direction. Sara very much wanted to break the digit for reasons yet unknown to her. Greg looked appropriately sheepish.

"I'm sorry Tori, it's just that work has been hectic lately." Sara shot him a look. "Well, excepting tonight," he amended. "Tori, this is the friend I was telling you about, Sara Sidle." When the Italian's gaze swung to the other CSI, she smiled again. Sara reciprocated the action (albeit close-lipped) reluctantly.

"So this is Sara," she said as though she'd been waiting to meet Sara her entire life. "I've heard a lot about you." She winked conspiratorially as she spoke, and Sara's eyes widened. "Ooh, Greg, you didn't tell me she was so _bella._" Sara felt her cheeks flame, and she felt a little bit warmer towards the other woman.

"Thanks, but-hold on a minute, I thought your name was Fiorenza!" Sara exclaimed as the thought occurred to her.

"Tori's just a nickname, for her middle name, Vittoria," Greg supplied from where he was looking at his feet in utter mortification (he'd been like that since Fiorenza had mentioned the former lab-tech talked about his frequent partner). Two realizations came to Sara at once: one, she had never met anyone so thoroughly Italian in her life; two, Greg had a NICKNAME for this woman. Meaning she was special. Meaning…well, Sara wasn't sure what else it meant, but she wasn't sure she'd like it.

"Actually, it's just Greg here who calls me that," Tori/Fiorenza/Whatever said, shooting Greg a fond look. "Everyone else calls me Enza." So Greg had a SPECIAL nickname for the woman (and to think Sara had prided herself on not being a jealous person). Enza's focus returned to Sara. "So will you be dancing today?" Sara shrugged.

"I guess." Enza's eyes ran calculatingly up and down Sara.

"In that?" she asked, referring to Sara's black slacks, purple blouse and boots.

"What's wrong with this?" the CSI asked, baffled. Greg winced at Sara's ignorance, and Enza looked as though she might have an aneurysim.

Sara had never seen anyone move so fast (although there had been that one time when Mia had found out that Hodges wanted to ask her out after shift…THAT had been some pretty quick footwork). Within fifteen minutes the CSI was outfitted in a leotard that showcased more than she was comfortable with. The fact that there were tights under it did nothing to assuage her unease, nor did Enza's reassurances that it looked fine and that all dancers wore them.

"It's just like a swimsuit," she soothed.

"Well, I don't like bathing suits," Sara retorted. "Not even one pieces. I stay away from the beach and the pool." The only response she received was a pair of ballet slippers thrown in her face.

Though Sara still had her doubts about the ensemble, the look on Greg's face when she finally appeared almost compensated for them.

"Wow! You look…"

"Stupid?" Sara projected. He cleared his throat, and eyed her strangely.

"Not what I was gonna say. More like…great."

"I feel overexposed," she admitted, flattered by his remark but determined not to show it. "How can anyone possibly be comfortable dancing in this? And these mirrors aren't doing anything to help." It was true; the floor to ceiling mirrors that covered three of the walls in the room were making her a little nervous.

"Oh, you get used to them," Greg remarked offhandedly. "The outfit and the mirrors." Sara assumed he was speaking from experience, as he had his own Spandex heavy clothing (only his was short-sleeved and he had sweatpants over it).

"Okay, so where do we begin?" Sara asked after several silent moments. Greg grinned, and bowed deeply.

"Welcome to the Greg Sanders School of Mambo. For the next three weeks, I shall be your instructor in all the ways of this most complicated and famous dance. Fortunately for you, no matter how horrendous you may start out as, I have skills that far surpass that of any ordinary person, and my talent will more than make up for whatever you may be lacking. And yes, you may call me Master if you see fit. Any questions?" Sara raised her hand in exasperation.

"Yes, will you be doing any teaching in the near future?" she asked without waiting to be called on.

"So impatient," he sighed. "Very well. Now, to begin, you are required to move closer." Sara inched forward a bit, arms folded across her chest. Greg rolled his eyes and took several steps forward, so they were about half a foot apart.

"First take this hand-" he raised his left arm, and tentatively she took the proferred hand. "I'll put my other hand on your waist like this," he did so, and Sara ignored the sharp tingle that ran up her spine at the contact, "and you put your hand on my right arm."

Feeling uncharacteristically shy, she chanced a gaze up and almost immediately regretted it. Never before had she thought anyone's eyes fathomless or any of that other Harlequin-spouting trash, but that was the only word that came to mind when her gaze met his brown one. The intensity of the feeling was such that Sara almost immediately looked down again, shaken by it.

"Sh-shouldn't there be music?" she inquired, mostly to erase the awkwardness she was experiencing.

"Not before you familiarize yourself with the steps," he replied.

"Right. And those would be?"

* * *

Okay, okay, not a brilliant way to end the chapter, but I figured I needed to get this one done before it became longer than the first three chapters combined. The electricity is starting to really flow between them now, and if the last bits of this segment seem a little contrived or stupid, it's only because I didn't give them as much thought as the others.

The dance studio I described is actually what my old one was like, back in my days of jazz, ballet and tap. So I do know a little of what I'm talking about. And the discomfort Sara was feeling? It's true, those things make you feel VERY self-conscious.

Degas, in case you didn't know, was a famous artist known widely for his paintings of ballet dancers-they're really beautiful. And when Fiorenza says 'bella' that means beautiful in Italian. Which is about the extent of my vocabulary in that language, besides pizza and 'ciao'.


	5. That's Amore

Huh, I think that this song has become like my inspiration. It's Uninvited, by Alanis Morissette (I THINK I spelled her name right…I can never remember which letters are doubled…). Maybe I should write a songfic to this at some point. You know, when I've recovered from actually writing a multi-chaptered fic that I UPDATE. (this is a milestone for me, in case you don't realize). And it's all thanks to my reviewers (special thanks to remoob1513 whose reviews probably account for about half of the ones this story has, heh heh, I should give you an award or something).

And thank you, CSIrookiechick, for pointing out the shoe error. Heh, I know things about jazz, tap and ballet, but my ballroom dancing skills are questionable, so bear with me on any mistakes I make, and feel free to correct me at any point if I totally screw something up. I will fix that this chapter. Which, btw, this segment picks up where the last one left off.

And onward with the Sara/Gregness!

* * *

"One-two-three-four-Sara-keep-your-arms-stiff-one-two-three-four-one-two-OW!" Greg's diatribe was interrupted as Sara stepped on his foot for the umpteenth time. They had been at it for about an hour and hadn't managed to get very far. Not that it was expected; it was just that Sara stuck to things she was good at so being bad at something was a new experience for her.

"Sorry," she said sheepishly. Greg forced what was supposed to be a smile but came out like a pained grimace.

"Don't worry about it," he said in a strained voice. "I think that foot is becoming numb to the pain. It's a good thing, trust me."

"Ah ha!" came a voice from outside the room. "I knew I had a spare pair in here somewhere!" A triumphant looking Enza entered the room with a pair of ballroom dancing shoes. "Size seven-and-a-half is _molto _generic, and usually I never have stock because they sell out, but these were hidden in the back." Sara eyed them nervously.

"But-but they have high heels," she protested. Enza stared at her blankly.

"Well..._si. _But these are the required shoes for ballroom dancing, and the mambo is definitely ballroom dancing. You can't just keep using ballet shoes."

"I can barely WALK in high heels, let alone dance in them," Sara said a bit petulantly.

"Yeah, um, maybe we should hold off on the shoes," Greg cut in nervously, gaze bouncing towards the heel of the shoe and back towards his feet. Sara stared at him in shock.

"You don't think I can handle them?" she said defensively. Greg's mouth dropped open.

"You just said-" his indignant sputters were interrupted by Sara raising herself to her full height (which, she was satisfied to say, was taller than Enza).

"I, Sara Sidle, do not back away from challenges, and what you just said sounded suspiciously like one," she declared. "Strap on those shoes, I'll learn to dance in them if it kills me."

"Or if it makes me a foot amputee," Greg muttered.

"What did you say?" Sara demanded. He raised his hands innocently.

"Nothing, nothing." She glared, while Enza checked her watch and gasped.

"I have to be at the airport in an hour!" she exclaimed with the air of one who receives an unpleasant shock. "Okay,_ bambini,_ please, try not to kill each other or destroy my studio before I get back from Italy," she said patronizingly. "It's the last thing I need after a visit with the del Rossi clan."

"She doesn't exactly see eye-to-eye with her family," Greg mock whispered. Enza stuck her tongue out at him.

"They're not all bad. Marco's a sweetie and little Belladonna is the most _adorabile _baby you ever saw. But my parents need to learn that not everything the Roman Catholic Church says is directly from God's mouth," she added a bit bitterly. Greg smiled softly at her, and for a moment Sara's stomach flip-flopped, and she blushingly remembered the electricity that she had felt looking into his eyes. However, she quashed that thought speedily enough.

"How am I supposed to return this stuff to you, if you're gone?" she asked. Enza waved it off.

"Keep it. Lord knows I have enough lying around already. Any friend of Greg's is a friend of mine." She hesitated. "Well…except for the ballroom shoes. Those'll have to come back when you're done with the whole thing."

"No great loss to me, really," muttered Sara almost inaudibly. _'Ohhh, Sara. How do you keep getting yourself into these impossible situations? How the hell am I supposed to dance in these things?'_ she wondered, staring at the shoes. Granted, the heels weren't THAT high, but in Sara's elevated state of panic, everything was just a little bit scarier.

"Well," said Enza, apparently ignoring Sara's remark, "I really have to get going. As my people say, _in bocco al lupo_!"

"Huh?" Sara uttered cluelessly. Enza giggled.

"Means good luck." To Sara's utmost shock, the Italian swept in on her, kissing both her cheeks. "_Ciao, bella_." She then turned to Greg and did the same. Then she pulled back, and looked him seriously in the eyes.

"Be careful," she said with a hint of solemnity. He smiled wryly.

"When have I been anything but?" Enza sighed, and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. He caught it, and raised an eyebrow. "Besides, save a little worry for yourself." Leaning forward, he whispered something in her ear, and suddenly she drew back and swatted him playfully on the shoulder, the soft, grateful look in her eye belying her violent actions.

Feeling distinctly uncomfortable witnessing what was obviously a personal moment, Sara cast her eyes down, suddenly full of an intense longing for the same type of connection that they obviously shared. It was something she had never managed with Grissom, the man she was supposedly in love with.

After Enza dashed off, Greg let his gaze linger a moment on the doorway with a slightly troubled look, then he turned his attention to Sara.

"What did you whisper to her right before she left?" she asked curiously, wondering if she had a right to ask. Obviously not bothered by the question, Greg quirked his lips up in a little half-smile (Sara's treacherous little subconscious screamed that he should do that more often) and answered.

"_In bocco al lupo_," he said a bit cryptically. Sara didn't inquire further, but she wondered why exactly someone would need luck when going to visit family. Then she shrugged a little to herself. If she were going to see her relations, she'd like a few wishes of good fortune too.

Not too long afterwards, Greg yawningly suggested that they quit for the day and go home to get some sleep. Sara immediately felt a little guilty. While she had had an opportunity to nap during work (a rarity indeed) Greg had not, and he'd been working.

"Sorry," she apologized. "I totally forgot-" Greg cut her off.

"Nah, not your fault. Besides, this was a very productive session."

"Really?" Sara hadn't gotten that impression.

"Uh huh. Because of it, I've realized that you need all the practice you can get," he teased. Sara punched his arm good-naturedly.

"Sorry I can't be the Baby to your Johnny," she retorted. Greg stared a moment. "What?"

"I knew it!" he exclaimed gleefully. "You are SUCH a closet Dirty Dancing fan!"

"No I'm not!" Sara denied heatedly. "I've just seen the movie a couple of times."

"You probably even have the soundtrack," Greg continued on as if he hadn't even heard her.

'_The original one on tape, then the CD when it became available,'_ Sara confessed mentally, but damned if she'd let him know that.

"You have no proof," she said determinedly. He positively cackled, and she wondered exactly what medication he was on.

"I don't need proof," he declared. "The look on your face is evidence enough." Sara schooled her features to be perfectly neutral. "Nope." Greg shook his head when he saw her expression change. "It's too late, the damage is done. You probably have a poster of Patrick Swayze, too."

'_I was fourteen! Young! Impressionable! It's not like I still have it…on my wall.'_

When Greg saw that Sara was definitely becoming irate and on the verge of storming off, he caught her wrist. Swinging around to face him, she stopped short when she felt it again.

'_Connection…'_

And had she ever felt this way when Grissom looked her eye-to-eye? Had that strong bolt of frisson crackled between their gazes until neither were aware of their surroundings, only of the person standing right in front of them? It had never happened, to her crystal recollection of every awkward, painful moment of her very non-relationship with Gilbert Grissom.

What was that supposed to mean?

Greg took a shaky breath and let it out in one whoosh, drawing away from Sara even as her entire being cried out for otherwise.

"Sorry," he said tremulously, clearly thrown. "I mean, if I got a little annoying. It's late…" he made a face "…or early, and I get a little slap-happy when I'm tired, so I can't be accountable for anything I may say or do."

"It's okay." Sara accepted the apology, avoiding his gaze. "I mean, I guess I should be a little less touchy anyway. Let's just go home-I mean, to my home, then yours, except separately-" Sara scowled and shut her mouth, realizing after these past few days, nothing good could come of her opening it. Greg shoved his hands into his pockets.

"I know. I get what you're saying." Said ex-lab rat smiled hopefully at her, and unwillingly she found herself reciprocating. "How about we forget these past few minutes ever occurred, and get on with our lives?" Sara laughed a little.

"Sounds good to me."

Later that night, after Greg had dropped her off, though mentally she was exhausted, the nap Sara had taken halfway through shift had left her body wired, and following half-an-hour of restless tossing and turning, she gave up and went into her living room. Once there, she ended up taking out every eighties dance flick she had and indulging in a movie marathon, hoping that the mindless dialogue and overacting would numb her over and allow her to get some sleep.

Of course (albeit with a guilty look at the cover) she watched Dirty Dancing first, and by the end of that, still had energy to pop in Footloose. Halfway through, her eyelids began to droop. She'd barely made it past the opening credits of Flashdance before dozing off.

When she next opened her eyes, she found her vision somewhat blurred and hazy. As Kevin Bacon danced by singing 'Footloose', she found herself suddenly tangoing with Patrick Swayze, even though she had no real idea how to tango, and that wasn't even what his movie was about! She reached up to run a hand through his hair and suddenly it was soft and spiky, and when did Swayze have spiky hair? But it was Greg staring down at her with that wide, butterfly-inducing smile of his and-

Sara's eyes snapped open. What the hell was that about? Since when did she dream about Greg Sanders? Since when did she dream ROMANTICALLY about Greg Sanders? She liked Grissom. Admittedly there were none of the insides melting leg jellying sparks that she felt when she looked at Greg, but the man had taken up almost five years of her life, and that had to count for something more than admiration and a deep respect, didn't it?

Mentally she compared the two. Grissom was brilliant, socially inept, caring in his own fumbling way but at oftentimes cold and aloof, especially when it came to Sara expressing her possibly misplaced affections. Greg was warm, bright, probably just as genius as Grissom in his own off-balance way, concerned with her feelings, surprising in all the right ways and also incredibly adorable when you really thought about-oh shit.

Ohhhh shitshitshitshitshit. She was falling for Greg Sanders. This was not good. In fact, this was as bad as it could possibly get. Her world was about to come crashing down around her ears. Armageddon, anarchy would reign. There was no getting through this.

So then WHY couldn't she wipe the stupid grin off of her face?

* * *

Hum, well, parts of this chapter were rushed and a little foggy around the edges. And in my opinion, Family Channel is definitely wearing out Dirty Dancing, it was just on again tonight. Sigh.

So Sara has finally recognized her entirely non-platonic feelings for Greg. Took her long enough. Sorry if parts of this seemed sappy, I tried my best.

Updates may be a little slower in coming now, because school is coming. Plus, my grandmother just died, so we're a little busy with that. It's all very surreal.

Hope you weren't disappointed by this latest installment, and I will see you in the next one.


	6. AUTHOR'S NOTE! VERY IMPORTANT!

Dudes. It's been a while. Not entirely my fault. I haven't gotten much chance to update at all because the school year got off to a mediocre start in which my parents flipped out and overreacted, banning me from all weekday computer usage. And I actually DO stuff on the weekends, which leaves me little time for semi-decent chapter writing.

FEAR NOT, HOWEVER. I do make some use of school time for typing, and I've currently trapped the laptop hostage, so I'm HOPING that there will be a chapter up before next week. I can't make any promises, but I will make my best effort.

This story WILL be updated, so panicking reviewers such as remoob, take heart. I DID say that the updates would be fewer and further between. Plus, Family Channel has given up on their Dirty Dancing overplaying, so I must channel my inner Swayze some other way, as I do not actually own the movie. As opposed to The Breakfast Club, which I do own, and watch religiously every weekend. BUT THIS STORY WILL BE COMPLETED, IF I HAVE TO SLASH MY OWN WRISTS AND WRITE THE REST OF IT IN BLOOD! Which, in retrospect, still wouldn't be of any use to you guys, as it would be handwritten, and not on the computer. Oh well. The thought that counts, right?

Until the next chapter, then!


	7. Sharing Is Caring

Hum, well, this one took a while. Sorry! But I started school, and am trying to get used to the new homework load (I mistakenly thought that junior year would be a little easier than sophomore). Honestly! What is the point of two hours worth of math homework?

Good news is, I'm taking Creative Writing, and although I don't care for the teacher, I'm definitely getting ideas for new CSI fics from some of the prompts in the textbook. Hey, maybe I'll even improve my writing style!

So. Remember last chapter-waaaaaaay back when-where Enza was leaving. Ha, I'll give points and a cookie to anyone who can identify where I got her surname from. I'll give you a hint: It's from a television show.

Umm, the Italian translations (which I forgot to put in my last author's note) are as follows: molto-very; bambini-children; si-yes; in bocco al lupo-good luck…and these are all gotten from an online translator, so if they are completely wrong, don't blame me. IT'S NOT MY FAULT, I SWEAR!

Onwards!

A week had passed since the first practice and the epiphany that followed, and Sara was still shaken by the very idea of being in love with Greg. Attraction she could deal with, but the soul-shattering, mind bending, emotional feelings she was experiencing were not just a case of simple lust.

However, she hadn't had much time to think about this dilemma in earnest because there was really no room in her brain right now for much besides work and the steps to that god-awful, way too confusing dance called the mambo. Honestly, it was a good thing that the person who invented it was probably dead; otherwise she would've shot them. And she was a CSI, she knew how to cover it up. Although with her luck, Sophia would end up solving the case and saving the day by finding that one tiny piece of physical evidence needed to get an arrest. Sara could imagine that scenario…

Wait. Better not to imagine it, and save herself the depression that would plague her the rest of the night.

Given different circumstances, she probably would have started avoiding Greg at all costs, but that was rather impossible when more often than not they were partnered up, and then they had to meet up to work on their routine. At least her car was out of the shop and she no longer depended on him for a ride.

Sighing as she entered the dance studio for one of their before-shift practice sessions, Sara flung the bag with her work clothes on one of the visiter lounge's chairs. She had taken to wearing athletic shorts over the leotard; she was less self-conscious that way. As it were, she still felt a little unsteady in the shoes, though they were definitely not as hard as she'd first projected they'd be.

Greg, as per usual, was already there. It was possibly one of the only things he was ever earlier than she was for. Of course, that had more to do with her trying to put off getting to the practices for as long as possible than anything. He grinned at her, and unwillingly she found herself smiling back. He had that effect on her, and she wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not

"Sara! Ready for today's Lesson of Doom?" he greeted buoyantly. Sara groaned.

"Not even close. My feet are still screaming from last night's torture." His countenance immediately switched from bright to concerned.

"Do you want to hold off on tonight's session then? I mean, if you don't feel up to it…"

"No, I'll be fine," Sara insisted. "No pain, no gain, right?"

"Funny, my grade school gym teacher always said 'stop when it hurts'," Greg said wryly. "Although I think liability had more to do with that than actually worry for our health."

Then he clapped his hands, and smiled mischievously. "So. To spice up otherwise monotonous proceedings, I have devised a little game for tonight. You see, I've realized that in all of our work together, I know…" he thought a moment. "Next to nothing about you. I mean, I know your moods, and which ones to avoid, and to some extent I know what you like, but that's it. And the same goes for you with me. Tonight I shall remedy that." Sara sighed.

"Are you going to actually tell me what we're doing at some point, or not?"

"Impatient." He sent her an exaggerated glare. "I was just getting to that. The name of the game is this: you get a step right, I tell you something about myself; you get a step wrong, you share something about yourself. And since I know how much you like to keep your private life private…" his grin widened wickedly "…you'd better get all of the steps right."

"You're using the fact that I keep things close to heart for your own purposes of making me a better dancer?"

"Or trying to, anyways." Greg shrugged. "Whatever works. Ready?"

Mutinously muttering under her breath, Sara grabbed his hand and took the starting stance.

"Here we goooo…" sang Greg. The first step went off without a hitch; Sara smirked triupmphantly. The former lab tech appeared unfazed. He thought a moment.

"Let's see. Um…" He brightened. "Oh! I know." Dramatic pause. Sara was about to smack him. "I can swear in six different languages."

Sara was actually surprised.

"Really? Which ones?" she asked, curious.

"Weelll-English, obviously. Norwegian, because my grandparents made me speak it whenever I came over, and my grandfather had the mouth of a sailor. Chinese, because in San Francisco, where I grew up, me and my friends would always go down to Chinatown, and those immigrants were trash talkers if I ever heard any. Spanish, because California has so many Hispanics, and Italian, because of Tori. Lastly, French, because my high school required four language credits to graduate, and that's the one I chose." He stopped a minute, and snickered. "Of course, I had to do a little extra research for the French curses. They didn't teach us THOSE in school."

"I should hope not," Sara replied dryly. "Can we continue?"

"Your wish is my command." The next sequence was a little shakier; still, though barely, Sara made it through without messing up. "You're turn again," she said smugly.

"I went with a silly one last time; maybe I'll go for a serious one this time," he contemplated. "Er…" he blushed. "I really WAS a virgin until I was twenty-two." Sara's eyes widened.

"I was right! I was just joking when I told Mia that! You're not fooling around?" she exclaimed, trying to stifle her laughter. "You were still one for a year after you came to the lab!"

"It wasn't because I couldn't get any," he mumbled, "it's just that I kind of wanted to wait, y'know, for someone right…" his words became more and more incoherant as the sentence went on, and his look was akin to that of a kicked puppy. Sara instantly felt horrible.

"Greg, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh; I just didn't expect to be right. It was a funny coincidence. I actually think it's sweet that you waited that long," she admitted truthfully. "And I wish I had done the same." He brightened a bit.

"Ah ah, no sharing until you mess up," he warned.

"IF I mess up."

"Well that's a given." Sara swatted him.

"Shut up." For the next two steps, Sara's footwork prevailed and she learned that Greg's favorite color was purple mountains majesty ("The coolest named crayon in the box!") and that he'd played the drums in a band in college. ("At Stanford!" Sara had to exclaim. All she received was a shrug in return.). Alas, this streak was not to continue, and she fumbled over one foot in the next round.

"Damn!" she swore.

"Come on, Sara," Greg goaded. "It's not fair for you to be learning all these interesting facts about me, while I'm still in the dark about you." She sighed.

"Okay, okay." She thought a moment. "Alright. Don't laugh, but…" Deep breath. "I used to be in love with Grissom." A moment of silence.

"Well duh," Greg said blankly. "You call that sharing? Sara, I'm not supposed to already know what you tell me."

"What do you mean, already know?" Sara demanded indignantly.

"What I mean is that it would have been less obvious if you were to wear a sign stating 'I'm Head Over Heels For Gil Grissom'. Everyone in the lab and probably a few not in the lab could tell."

"You're not joking?" Sara whispered, mortified. "Everyone?" Greg immediately looked alarmed.

"You mean you didn't realize we all knew? Shit. We weren't making FUN of you," he reassured. "We just hoped you would realize you were fighting a losing battle before you got your heart smashed into pieces."

"A little late for that," Sara stated, a bit bitterly. There was a heavy, morose silence that lasted a few moments before she broke it. "Can we go on, please?" She flawlessly performed the following maneuver. Greg looked down solemnly at her.

"I think Grissom is a genius. I also think that Grissom is a complete, total and absolute moron for not realizing what he had and hanging on to it with all of his might."

Sara absolutely melted; as a result, she tripped over her next step.

"I was in love with Grissom," she repeated softly.

"You used that one already."

"You didn't let me finish," she corrected gently. "I was in love with Grissom. I'm not anymore." She glanced up, holding Greg's gaze steadily, and his brown eyes darkened with some unidentifiable emotion. Without even realizing it, they were inching closer; leaning forward into each other. Sara's whole being buzzed with anticipation, her lips tingled as his face came nearer and nearer.

They were so achingly close; there was a hairs breadth distance and then…

BANG!

They jumped apart faster than you could say 'Speedy Gonzalez' (which, for a word, takes a little longer to say than others, so perhaps that's not the best example). Disappointed and oddly hollow, Sara followed Greg's stare to the door of the studio, where Enza passed by, apparently upset.

Sara certainly hoped so; at that exact moment, she LOATHED the Italian woman.

"Tori?" Greg called, heading for the hallway. "What are you doing back so early? You were supposed to be there for two more weeks." Enza popped back in, looking disheveled and puffy eyed. "Oh," he said forebodingly. "Things didn't go as expected, did they?"

"No," Enza said in a strangled sort of voice. "Things went exactly as expected. They just didn't go as planned." She sniffed, apparently holding back tears, and Sara suddenly felt distinctly uncomfortable. She checked her watch.

"Greg," she said quietly, feeling like an intruder, "there's not much time before shift. We need to go."

"You go," he said distractedly, eyes still fixed on Enza. "I'll follow. Could you tell Griss that I'll probably be a little late?"

"Sure thing." As she passed by, he gave her arm a squeeze and smiled with gratitude at her. Sara couldn't help but be warmed by the slight gesture, and she went on her way. Glancing back, she was just in time to see him put his arm around his friend, and the warm feeling was replace by void.

As she got in her car, she wondered why she had such rotten luck in choosing the men she loved.

Woo, I'm not dead! And I got this chapter out semi-before my deadline! It wasn't as funny as previous chapters, I'm afraid, and as I'm writing this at ten to one in the morning, it might not be as good, either. But it had an almost kiss!

Hopefully next chapter will be quicker in coming. Until then, adieu, mes amis!


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